It's Okay With Him
by Ra MayKaizen
Summary: Holmes muses alone after Watson has left with Mary. Luckily for him, the good doctor's on his way back, if only for a little while. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Tired eyes stared at the wall, refusing to close. The tourniquet was tight around his upper arm, needle in hand. How long had it been since his companion had left with that woman?

_A woman is arguing money with her husband across the street—a child is chasing a dog—big man, walking with a limp, favoring his left leg. . .He's looking for something, asking directions. The beggar woman has five coins in her can. . . _

Although he didn't want to admit it, Sherlock Holmes was having a horrible time coping with Watson's absence. He'd resorted to his syringe every night, sometimes multiple times a day. He hadn't touched a case. . .Nothing mattered anymore. Even his whirlwind of thoughts, overrun with everything he could hear outside his walls, meant nothing anymore. He didn't want to work out any problems, his mind was suffering. . .

_Someone's on the stairs, walking quickly. Lestrade—he's skipped the squeaky one. No matter, the door's locked, he'll leave soon enough—no wait. There's someone with him. . . ._

His heart hurt, in a way. He'd always heard distance cries of people with their broken hearts—something impossible, as a heart does not break. But that certainly didn't explain this pain he was suffering through. It was a pain that made his chest feel heavy, caused his mouth to be dry and sometimes, when he'd collapse from exhaustion, he'd awaken to a damp pillow—or damp jacket. He'd managed to swipe one of Watson's jackets before he left, and the detective kept it here in the study, sometimes pulling it close and burying his face in it. The doctor's scent was still on it, faintly, and it was soothing, if only for a moment.

_They're whispering outside the door. How bothersome, they ought to just leave. I'm not opening the door. _

_Outside is far more interesting to them, undoubtedly. There's a robbery going on up the road, three boys, probably not above the age of thirteen. The bakery is booming with costumers today, the noise is much louder than usual. . . It's busier out there today, so much louder—_

His eyes closed finally, mind still listening to countless sounds outside. There wasn't anything he could do to stop the whirlwind that possessed his mind. Dr. Watson's coat was on the arm of the chair and Holmes pulled it to his chest, inhaling the scent. The corners of his mouth twitched into a further frown, a lump presenting itself in his throat. The detective, with his usual cold demeanor and lack of feelings, felt like he could cry. Which thus proved he wasn't as heartless as he seemed.

He'd tried to prevent the wedding and John's leaving. . . So how had it ended up like this? He was alone now—the doctor had even taken the dog. The doctor. . .had taken everything when he left. The dog, Holmes's heart (_oh how pitiful old boy,_ he told himself at the thought), and the detective's will among other things. Now, all the times he'd spent with the doctor were nothing but memories, the only thing that remained was the good doctor's jacket. Sometimes, Holmes—his mind lost to a strange delirium—would swear he could see the doctor, or hear him moving around in his old room, but upon inspection, found that it was only a ghost presented by his mind. After the first few times, he stopped inspecting these apparitions, letting them move until they were gone.

And it was at those times that he resorted to his syringe more often. He was alone. Completely alone—which hadn't really bothered him before, but now the table had turned. It did bother him, to no end. But no one else's company would suffice except for Doctor John Watson. That man. . .

If a gypsy had told him back then that John Watson would bring him heartache, he would've scoffed and never let the man close—well, was that so much a choice? It had happened, living in close quarters, perhaps this was only because they'd lived together for what seemed like ages. . .

Holmes let out a sigh, slowly putting his syringe back in its leather case. He removed the tourniquet from his arm—he couldn't do it. Watson had always frowned upon the habit. . .He pulled the doctor's jacket to his face again, sniffing it. He would give anything to have his doctor—his friend, his brother (and maybe. . .maybe something more, if only)—back by his side. But there would be no such luck. . .

A haze was finally beginning to set into Holmes's mind. His thoughts, still endless and unconnected, began to lose coherence. _The rumble skied. . . Coming storm. . ._ _No. . .wait. . .Sky. Rumbled. Storm. Yes, a bad one undoubtedly. . . _

As though he were boneless, he slid from the chair to the floor, rough hands still clutching the jacket to his chest. Dreams began to invade his mind which was trying desperately to cling to consciousness. His body was achy though, far too tired. . .

_If only you would come home now, John. Walk through that front door. Your steps on the stairs; I can always tell your steps from anyone else's. Your limp is defined; sometimes your cane hit a stair or the hand rail. . ._

The detective took a deep breath, finally his mind dropped off into sleep.

* * *

"I tell you, he hasn't come out in nearly a month," Lestrade said quietly. "I've come by and he won't hear it. Even Mrs. Hudson is worried, bless her heart." The inspector shook his head, adjusting his hat with a sigh. "So you see, I had to come get you, he won't let anyone else in."

The doctor listened quietly before rapping his knuckles against the door. "Holmes." He called sternly. This behavior his former companion was showing was utterly childish. When there was no answer, he tried the doorknob again. There was no such luck of it being unlocked now. . .

He didn't want to have to kick the door in, but Holmes had hidden any spare keys and Watson didn't have his anymore. Well, Holmes would have to pay for the damage, of course, and though it didn't warrant the swift kick that broke the door, it certainly eased any of the doctor's qualms about doing it. He stepped into the room, leaning on his cane. He noticed Holmes sprawled on the floor and—clutching one of his good jackets? Wait, so _this_ was where it had gone?

Somehow, he wasn't as angry about that as someone else might've been. In fact, he was even a little flattered. . .He shook his head, turning to the Inspector.

"I'll take care of it from here," he said softly—he knew Holmes wouldn't want anyone to see him like that. . Lestrade gave the doctor a skeptical look before hurrying back down the stairs. Once he heard the front door close, Watson turned back to Holmes's sleeping form. He went to the detective's side and knelt beside him.

Practiced hands brushed through messy, dark locks and Watson had to refrain from rolling his eyes. Holmes was so obviously at mess it wasn't funny. But he couldn't help the smile on his face. Holmes seemed to be sleeping rather peacefully—which was _almost_ disappointing. But Holmes. . .was smiling in his sleep and Watson half wondered what his friend was dreaming about.

The doctor stayed by Holmes's side for a while before rising to evaluate the damage his partner had caused in his absence. Not that he was coming back anytime soon, but. . . He wandered the rooms, surprised to find only messes and nothing more outside of the study. Once he'd finished his survey, he returned to the sleeping detective's side and stroked his hair gently. Now, Watson was a good man, he would never dream of cheating on his beautiful Mary, but he couldn't deny the secret torch he'd held for the detective.

And perhaps he'd hurried off with Mary to deny the existence of this torch. No, he did love her, but not like he loved Holmes. He and the genius had been through so much together, how could he--? Mary was a beautiful woman, strong and precious to him, but Holmes. .. Holmes was something no other earthly being could ever hope to become, and yet he was flawed as any other man out there. He had a drug problem and tended to do his body harm on some many levels through such endeavors. He was rather anti-social and yet eccentric at the same time—Sometimes Watson thought Holmes had a mental problem of some sort. The man was a genius; he could deduce the most amazing facts from simple details and tended to stun many, including the doctor.

Watson would be lying if he said he didn't admire the other man in some way. But it was more than admiration that kept him by Holmes's side for so long. And despite his conclusion of being psychologically disturbed (and saying this was the reason for staying beside the detective), there was still more to it. It was love, he knew, it was sick and wrong—anyone and everyone would frown upon such feelings. . .

The doctor was pulled from his thoughts when Holmes's arms slipped around his waist and the detective—who was still asleep—was hugging him. And Watson blushed, patting Holmes on the head. For the moment, it was okay and he didn't mind, as it was only them now, and no one else was there and no one else mattered. He stroked Holmes's hair, letting the detective sleep. He settled his back against the chair, his own eyes closing. Any other work could wait, and Mary would wait—

And for the time being, that was okay with him.


	2. Chapter 2

It's Okay With Him pt.2

**Author's Note(s)**: So my Watson and isflamma both requested I write more. So, instead of doing German work . .. uh. Here's chapter two!

Disclaimer: You know the spiel. I don't own Holmes or Watson (because if I did, those books would have some yummy smut XD)—they belong to each—I mean. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Gunna go ahead and say I didn't really plan on continuing this, originally, so I have no idea where I'm going with this! But. . . I really like writing as Holmes.

* * *

The detective could swear John's scent on the jacket had mysteriously become thicker, stronger. Doctor John Watson had always had a distinct scent—one of cleanliness, as though fresh out of the bath, and cologne. Not the cheap kind, either, but something nice and light. Holmes had secretly taken great comfort in his former companion's scent. It was soothing on many levels, and he found it easy to focus on that scent alone—one of the few times when he managed to block out the rest of the world.

That had always been a difficult feat for him. Well, maybe not difficult, but it was quite distracting. He could pinpoint random sounds, thoughts rushed through his head like a fierce storm. And it often led to being distracted when he was addressed, though he caught bits and pieces of what was said. But Watson's scent had the ability to catch his attention, and he could focus his thoughts on the good doctor.

Holmes couldn't deny that he had particularly enjoyed when Watson would come up to the study and call his name multiple times—Sure, the detective heard, but never answered, his mind somewhere else, working on something, deep in thought. And so Watson would come to him and again, demand the detective's attention, which he could not help but to give. And finally he'd look up---

The detective stirred from his slumber. His arms, he realized, were no longer just around Watson's good jacket but something far more solid—Dark eyes snapped open and he pulled back swiftly, as though startled. This motion woke the doctor who'd been dozing lightly. And then there was an awkward silence*as their eyes met and neither of them said a word, and what could be said? 'I missed you'? 'Are you back for good?' 'What do you want?' Silence reigned until Watson broke it with a chuckle.

"What were you dreaming about, old boy?" He asked softly and he could've _sworn_ the detective blushed and fidgeted slightly before he looked away and shook his head.

"Nothing of consequence," Holmes replied quickly, rising and trying to discreetly stash away the doctor's jacket.

"Don't try it, Holmes." Watson's voice was stern and Holmes knew he'd been caught but he didn't mind playing still and the genius laughed.

"Try what, my dear Watson?" A challenge, it glinted in his eyes and Watson would've been lying had he said he'd not missed that. It felt like it had been far too long since he'd been here, a place he still considered home, if only because here was where _he_ was and Watson. . . Well, Watson felt as though he belonged beside the detective.

"My coat, Holmes, I'd like it back." Rising, the doctor held out a hand. And dark eyes just watched him, something odd—oh. The cold demeanor had broken away and the detective was actually . . . happy? Yes, that was happiness in those eyes, John could tell, and the genius was happy to see him. The good doctor was delighted, deep in his heart, to see that his return—albeit momentary—had brought something to those dark eyes.

Holmes quickly tossed the doctor's coat into a pile, where it would remain lost to Watson. He smirked and Watson rolled his eyes, sitting in the chair. His leg was irritated from his little nap on the floor. Clear blue eyes watched the detective quietly—Holmes had made his way to the window and was peeking through a curtain at the outside world. . .And he was very sure the elder's attention was lost from him. Watson frowned deeply.

"Holmes."

. . .

No answer.

Well, Watson couldn't say he was particularly surprised. Holmes's attention was everywhere at once, it was no wonder the man seemed to be neurotic. He rose slowly, well aware of the dull throb that had begun in his leg, and carefully made his way to the other man's side, leaning on his cane a little more than usual.

"Holmes." He was beside the detective now and still there was no answer. A hand grasped onto the elder's shoulder and Holmes's attention finally snapped to Watson. "How long have you been cooped up in here?"

"I was just out of here the other day."

"Oh?"

"Yes, in the bath."

Watson refrained from rolling his eyes again. That wasn't what he meant. Holmes knew it. Holmes. . .was upset. Well, that wasn't a surprise, as Holmes never did seem to get over him leaving. This, of course, made Watson wonder—he was fairly certain Holmes valued his friendship, but with the way the detective was acting, the doctor wasn't sure that it was just a brotherly bond that Holmes felt. And when he thought like that, it made his heart start to race—

"I mean outside. In the real world, Holmes. You know it's not healthy for to keep to yourself in this place. . ." Watson sounded worried, Holmes noted. But the genius shook his head.

"There's nothing for me—"

"Out there. Yes, I know, you. . .always say that. But Holmes, _please_."

The elder wasn't sure whether or not he should be insulted. Watson knew him well enough to finish his sentence, saying he _always_ said that—did he always? Hm, that sounded odd. But the detective shook his head and turned his face back towards the window.

_You don't understand, dear John—hm, it's going to be raining all day—and I simply cannot tell you. This isn't as simple as a case, old boy—that child is quite the pick-pocket—it registers on a completely different level than anything else. . . _

Watson frowned. He'd come out to talk to Holmes and now the detective was brushing him off. He shook his head and turned away, limping towards the door.

"John—"

Holmes's voice was so soft, Watson wasn't sure he'd heard it. But the detective never called him by name and it sent a shudder down his spine. He stopped in his tracks. If he went back to Holmes's side now, there was no telling what would happen. . .but if he left, there would be so much unsaid. . . But all at once, his body was making the decision for him, and he was turning around to find Holmes staring at him, and the detective seemed relieved to see him turn around. . .

And before anything was said, Watson was suddenly aware of how lonely Holmes had been, and how lonely _he_ had been, himself, without his detective.

* * *

HNG. Done. XD Hope you enjoyed it! –dies-

*SHAMELESS PLUG: Awkward, like the band! Myspace (dot) com (backslash) theaquards

-R.M.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes**: Hey guys, it's been a while since I've done anything. Life's been… well. Life. But I won't bore you with the dirty details. Thanks to everyone who's favorite'd this and added it to their alerts and a super thanks to my reviewers!

Also, a very special thanks to my dear Watson. Why you ever put up with me, I will never understand, but I am grateful for it all the same. And I'm grateful for you.

Okay, here's the final installment! (Holy shit, I'm finishing something? Blasphemy!)

* * *

For a long time, the two just stood, eyes locked. Neither could get words to escape their throats, nor could they will any movement. Not yet, or so it seemed—

But then Holmes was crossing the room, standing before Watson, expression serious. _I love you_, the words burned like fire in his head but no—he couldn't say such a thing. His fingers twitched, a hand rose and barely caught hold of Watson's before letting go, only to find the good doctor was holding his hand in return. And Watson offered him a smile, skin crinkling at the corners of his eyes with the gesture.

For a moment, everything had stopped. Both men held their breaths, waiting for the other to make a move. Rain pounded down on the roof and windows rhythmically, drumming along with their racing of their hearts. There was really only one course of action, only one thing they could do—but starting it would cause a snowball effect and sweep them both up—

It wasn't a wise idea. Watson knew it. Holmes knew it. But they closed the gap nonetheless, lips meeting roughly in a flurry of pent-up passion. There was no taking it slow now, tongues tangling, despite Holmes' awkwardness. When they finally had to disconnect, both men panting, they held one another's gaze. And then they met again in a wildly passionate kiss, having to break again to breathe almost a minute after.

The years of neglected emotions would ruin them both. There was only one way to solve it but—_Mary_. And suddenly guilt crossed Watson's face. Holmes knew then their connecting was momentary and now over. His heart ached as he stepped away from the doctor, mentally scolding himself.

_Falling for such a foolish emotion, Sherlock? You should know better. Such things cloud judgement—_

"Sherlock." Watson's voice broke into his thoughts, clear eyes pleading. The detective looked to his friend, emotions hidden behind a well placed, sturdy wall. "… Sherlock, I had wanted to before… Before all this—"

Holmes shook his head. "No need to explain. I understand, I assure you."

Watson could tell from that tone; Holmes was hurt. But Watson was a gentleman. He _couldn't_ do that to Mary—but he was killing his dear friend, he knew. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and the heat lingering on his lips from their kiss wasn't helping. The tension between them was suddenly so thick and heavy, it was suffocating. What could he do? Words, words… That was all he could offer. At least, for now.

"Sherlock."

Ignored, Holmes had turned from him and moved back to the window. _Leave now_, he urged mentally. He couldn't take Watson standing there, being here and not—_And what was that_? _A momentary lapse of judgment; he'll leave again now, and it will all be over._

"Sherlock." Voice stern. Time to listen. The detective turned slightly, glancing to Watson. The doctor hadn't moved.

"Sherlock, don't be childish. You know why we can't—"

"Why _you_ can't. Something I tried to prevent."

"Stop it. Just because I can't show you—"

"Show me what? Affection? I don't need it."

"Stop interrupting me."

"Perhaps I don't want to hear excuses."

"It's not an excuse!" Watson snapped finally. "Sherlock, I _love_ you. I have and I will. Even though I've got Mary, I _love_ you." Hurt and irritated, the good doctor limped from the room, adding as he went, "And if you choose not to believe that, then I can't convince you otherwise." With that, he was gone, limping down the stairs.

And Holmes stood there, dumbstruck.

_Go after him!_ Half his mind screamed, urged, anything to get him to move. _Let him go. He's not going to come back again anyway_, the other half said. But John had—those words rung in the detective's ears. _I love you_. _I have and I will_. Why couldn't he say he returned those feelings? He felt like he had peanut butter in his mouth, legs like lead and he couldn't move. No. No. _No_.

A flurry of motion—over the chair, through the door, down the steps two at a time. He caught Watson's arm before the doctor could get outside and tugged him back, hugging him tightly as if he never wanted to let go. Which he didn't want to. Never again.

Watson was surprised—he made a small noise indicating so. He glanced back to the detective, whose arms were tightly about his waist, and he turned ever so slightly, steady hands resting on Holmes's shoulders before he hugged the other in return.

For a long while, they stood like that, just inside 221B Baker Street, in one another's arms. Silence rested between them during that time—nothing needed to be said, even though Watson wanted to hear Holmes utter those three words. But he knew anyway, how could he not?

Maybe he'd always known. Maybe they'd both always known. It didn't matter. It was getting late now, and they still stood, hugging tightly to each other. Mary would understand if he didn't make it back home. She knew where he was. So finally, after a good amount of time had passed, they made their way back upstairs, holding hands, fingers intertwined tightly.

It wasn't until they were huddled close, trying to sleep, that Holmes spoke. And it seemed as though he'd waited until Watson was drifting off to sleep to speak, his voice soft and gentle and full of adoration.

"I love you too, John."

It was a simple confession, and Watson may have dreamed it… No. He knew the detective had said it. He was just too—too awkward to have said it before now. And Watson smiled. Maybe Holmes was frustrating, and the reason for a lot of his stress. But Holmes was also the only man he'd ever love, the only man who could drive him up the wall and still be so utterly fascinating. The doctor shifted sleepily, lips meeting Holmes's gently before he slumped back down. It was chaste kiss.

And that was okay with him.


	4. Post Script

**Author's Note:** I don't usually do this, but I'm in such a good mood, here goes!

_**Chapter One Reviewers**_**:**

_Isflamma_ & _JantJO'Neill_

Thanks for commenting on the first chapter! First chapter reviews often seem to be make or break for the rest of the story, so I'm glad I could please yous.

_**Chapter Two:**_

My gods, I got so many here. XD You guys really wanted this to continue, eh?

_Jaws_, _LoveOftheDarkness_, _isflamma_, _mildetryth_, _Middle-Earth Muggle_, _mogget861_, _Feeble Pen_, _LyraHazelnut_, & _Doughnutwithsprinkels_

I am delighted you guys enjoyed my work. If I remember correctly, I had a really hard time with that chapter. Looking back on it now though, it flows pretty damn well.

Isflamma, I'm glad you returned for chapter two c:

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I don't always reply, but it always means a lot to get email saying I got a review on a story or someone added this story to the alert list! Thanks to everyone for both of those emails coming in now and again! And thanks for sticking with me this long! I hope you enjoyed It's Okay With Him. Much love to you all!

Sincerely,

Ra Maykaizen


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